


Tracks in the snow

by chaos_monkey



Series: Winter Prompt Challenges [8]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Elements of Horror, Fear, Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-09
Updated: 2020-12-09
Packaged: 2021-03-10 08:29:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27967589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chaos_monkey/pseuds/chaos_monkey
Summary: Jaskier goes looking for Geralt after the witcher disappears in the night. Unfortunately, he finds... something else.Or rather, it finds him.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Winter Prompt Challenges [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2037175
Comments: 6
Kudos: 42





	Tracks in the snow

**Author's Note:**

> (written for the prompt [Tracks in the snow](https://chaos-monkeyy.tumblr.com/post/636306015958220800/chaos-monkeyy-chaos-monkeyy))

Jaskier woke up with a sneeze to a deserted campsite. 

He didn’t realize he was alone, at first. It was still dark, the moon bright and full in a starry sky and a light dusting of fresh, fluffy snow covering the campsite. He blearily scrubbed at his face, wiping away the melting snow that was tickling his skin with little wet droplets of early winter cold, and was just rolling over with a huff to yank his hood up and snuggle down farther in his and Geralt’s thick, fur-lined double bedroll when he realized— 

Geralt was gone, his space in their shared bed empty and chill. 

Jaskier frowned, sitting up to peer around and blinking further awake as a little curl of worry wormed through his gut. Geralt had been acting odd— odder than usual— ever since the hunt two days before, but it still wasn’t like him to just disappear without a word, and… Jaskier finally woke up enough to realize why he was so uneasy. 

He couldn’t see Roach, either. She had been right there when he’d gone to sleep, they _both_ had been; the horse and her witcher as well. 

“G- Geralt?” Jaskier called quietly. He waited, tense; but there was no answer. Swallowing nervously, he crept out of bed and went to investigate. He was no expert tracker, but after years of hanging around with a witcher he’d picked up a few things here and there. As far as he could tell, Geralt hadn’t ridden away; in fact, he and Roach appeared to have gone in almost opposite directions. 

Which was… weird. 

Jaskier chewed at his bottom lip for a moment. He knew he should probably wait there where he had the fire, and all their supplies— whatever Geralt was up to, he hadn’t taken those, at least. 

A thought suddenly occurring to him as he looked around the empty camp again, Jaskier hurried back to their bedroll, kicking the furs aside to find— 

Geralt’s swords, sheathed and tucked under the witcher’s side where he always kept them close at hand while he slept. 

Jaskier’s heart skipped a beat and sped up, thudding uncomfortably quickly in his chest. Geralt _never_ left his swords behind. Anywhere. 

After a moment of nervous consideration, Jaskier tucked the heavier of the two swords back under the bedroll. Hefting the other in both hands, he determinedly slung it across his back; then dug out a lantern, lit it off the embers of their fire, and set out into the night following Geralt’s tracks through the snow. 

He nearly lost the trail more than once as Geralt’s path wove through the trees and across the occasional bare patch of ground. It got easier as the trees thinned, but… to Jaskier’s growing unease, the witcher’s tracks were getting… _more_ erratic, and once or twice he even passed what looked like places where Geralt had actually stumbled and fallen to his hands and knees before continuing. 

A wolf howled somewhere in the distance, and Jaskier jumped, his heart pounding wildly in his chest. He’d never been out in the wilds like this _alone,_ never without Geralt nearby, or at the very least holed up somewhere the witcher had gruffly told him he’d be safe so long as he stayed put. Jaskier nearly turned to head back to the deserted camp then and there to wait for Geralt to come back— but then the howl came again. From behind him. From the direction he’d come in. 

If he turned back… he’d just be heading towards it. 

Breathing hard, tamping desperately down on the choking tendrils of fear crawling up his throat, Jaskier pushed on. Breaking into a half jog and forcing himself not to yell Geralt’s name in a panic, not wanting to risk drawing anything _else’s_ attention, he followed Geralt’s tracks out past what was left of the sparse treeline and up onto a snow-covered plateau, the dead, long grasses catching at his feet and ankles and threatening to trip him with every rushed stride. 

The howl came again, closer, and Jaskier whimpered, panting, glancing down as he ran faster. He could still make out Geralt’s bootprints, going in a straight line now— the witcher had been running, too. Jaskier had no idea why, but if he could just _find_ Geralt, catch him up, then everything would be fine, it had to be. But… Something was wrong. Geralt’s footprints were _changing;_ the shape was all wrong and the spacing was strangely uneven and there were suddenly _too many_ of them, somehow. 

Without warning, Jaskier tripped over something too solid to be grass and too soft to be a rock. His lantern went flying and he _slammed_ to the ground, hard, with a bitten-off cry at the pain that lanced up through his arm. He lay there stunned for a split second before scrambling forward— and froze in a crouch, still on his hands and knees, staring in shock at the trail of footprints he’d followed all the way from camp. 

Because he wasn’t following footprints anymore. 

He was following paw prints. Enormous, clawed, paw prints. 

The crunch of fresh snow and the low, menacing growl came from close behind him; _too_ close, the sound turning Jaskier’s blood to ice and freezing his breath in his lungs. Trembling, afraid to look but even more afraid not to, he slowly turned and lifted his gaze from the tracks in the snow. 

Somewhat incongruously, the first thing he noticed was the boot he’d tripped over. Geralt’s boot, lying in the snow a pace away, the blackened leather tattered and shredded and the silver buckle glinting in the cold blue light of the full moon. The second thing he noticed, a few paces beyond the boot, was the massive, white wolf stalking slowly towards him; as white as the snow itself, with fangs that were bared in a snarl and eyes that shone yellow in the darkness. 

Jaskier couldn’t breathe; couldn’t move, despite every fibre of his being _screaming_ at him to run, flee, hide, as the wolf prowled closer step by step. Its low rumble filled the air, getting louder and louder, vibrating right down to Jaskier’s bones and turning his guts to water. 

He remembered, too late, the sword he had strapped uselessly to his back— and then, as the wolf got close enough for Jaskier to feel the powerful heat of its breath, misting out in clouds in the frigid air… he saw it, a half-circle of glinting metal peeking out from white fur. 

A silver medallion. Trapped around the beast’s neck. Jaskier heard his own whisper as though it was coming from someone else’s lips. 

“G- Geralt?” 


End file.
